


call it a night when the booze hits

by gravitational



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier wander into town at the peak of a fertility festival, and, well... what's the harm in joining in?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 432





	call it a night when the booze hits

**Author's Note:**

> I don't class this as dub-con, but to serve as fair warning, they are under the influence of aphrodisiacs. They are, however, most definitely in a pre-established relationship.
> 
> "Super Fade" - Fall Out Boy

It’s some sort of fertility ritual that has half the goddamn kingdom out and about, or at least Jaskier thinks he remembers Geralt saying that. He’s reasonably sure he said that, way back when they first came into town.

Jaskier isn’t exactly sure... why they came into town, though. Probably a contract.

He remembers making Geralt rest for the night, making him rent a room at the inn and accompany Jaskier across the street to the tavern, sit in the back corner as always.

They hadn’t counted on the tavern being filled with people - well, no, they knew there’d be people, but somehow they hadn’t made the connection between “fertility festival” and “drunk exhibitionists.”

Jaskier deduced pretty quickly that attempting to perform would be useless, so he had left Geralt in his corner and gone to buy them some ale.

He remembers Geralt wrinkling his nose with the first sip, and he remembers thinking his own tasted a little sweeter than normal, but nothing more.

They sat, and they drank, and they watched. Somehow, leaving what seemed minutes from becoming a public orgy wasn’t an option - they had a private room, yes, but there was something amusing about watching men and women clothed in the most ridiculous adornments worship the human body in one of the most primal ways.

Come to think of it, Jaskier remembers thinking that there’s no way Geralt would have endured the tableau if he wasn’t dead tired or intending to participate - actually, he remembers Geralt looking decidedly disgusted up until the barkeep brought them a second round.

_(Actually, he also remembers the barkeep winking and saying to him, “From the looks o’ him, you’ll be stiff come morning.”)_

Hmm.

Well, Jaskier has never been one to run from a drink, nor from a good fuck, and he knows that if he keeps Geralt in the tavern long enough, his witcher will forget all his irritable thoughts and be far more inclined to bed him when they return to their room, so he remains in place, and Geralt does the same.

_(Besides, it’s awfully entertaining to make fun of the locals without them paying attention.)_

It seems, however -

Well, it seems that they made a miscalculation somewhere along the line, because the more ale Jaskier drinks, the sweeter the damn ale becomes, and the sweeter the damn ale becomes, the hotter he begins to feel, and -

And he looks across at Geralt, and the witcher is sweating too, beads of it on his brow, his golden eyes on the latest tankard in his hand. he looks bewildered, but he also looks -

Oh, he’s looking at Jaskier now, and that new glint in his eyes, it’s one Jaskier knows well. he feels just this side of drunk and just this side of drugged, but when Geralt sets the tankard aside, holds his gaze, widens his feet on the floor, Jaskier moves.

He slides from his chair and into Geralt’s lap without hesitation, the movement made clumsy by drink, and he tangles his hands in icy locks, and Geralt meets him halfway, kisses him with his lips already parted to take control.

Jaskier can’t help but groan when he feels a strong hand run down his back, settle over his ass and squeeze. Geralt is so much more powerful than him, something he’s forced to remember each and every time they’re together - it’s virtually nothing for the witcher to manhandle him, and gods, does Jaskier adore it.

He whines when Geralt breaks the kiss, but the protesting sound turns into happiness quickly enough when his witcher noses beneath his chin, sets his teeth against his skin and bites, just barely, just enough for him to feel. “Yours,” is Jaskier’s immediate response, and he gasps out a moan when Geralt sinks his teeth in deep.

The hubbub of the room around them has faded entirely, and although Jaskier knows they’ve probably got some sort of audience, he finds it impossible to care when Geralt’s hands are guiding him into motion, into grinding down against his lap with smooth, slow circles of his hips.

_(Funny, he never took geralt for an exhibitionist... that ale was potent.)_

Geralt seems oblivious to his thought process, far too preoccupied with kissing and biting along the expanse of Jaskier’s throat to give a damn about anything else. it’s enough to drive Jaskier mad, to have him gasping, panting, whining, writhing, and when Geralt’s other hand works its way between them to cup his straining cock through his pants, Jaskier yelps.

He feels, more than hears, the fucking growl Geralt gives in response, feels it right against his throat, and he shudders with its strength.

Geralt isn’t letting up, isn’t giving him a fucking break - he doesn’t even seem to remember the fact that clothes can be removed, that these things can be a sight easier, but really, Jaskier doesn’t have the heart nor mental capacity to tell him, not when Geralt is forcing him to rut into his palm like a pathetic little _bitch_ in heat, when Geralt is leaving his claim all along his aching throat...

Sharp fangs sink in at a point far more sensitive than the rest, and Jaskier’s world goes white, and he spills into his bloody pants like a teenager again, and he’s gasping, panting, whining, writhing, clawing at Geralt’s shoulders -

And Geralt has been rocking up against him all the while, no doubt fucking up his own rhythm time and time again, but he doesn’t seem to care - anyway, he’s been rocking up, hard, and now, he sinks his teeth in and thrusts up as he breaks, and the low, raw groan he gives tells Jaskier everything he needs to know.

They both go slack, Jaskier trembling with the continued pressure of Geralt’s hand, his head buried in Geralt’s neck to hide. He breathes in, breathes out, manages a laugh when he realizes he’s still hard - still hard, still yearning, and a little shift of his hips and the answering growl of _“little lark”_ indicates Geralt is much the same.

Maybe the ale was spoiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> tumblr: gravitational813


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